Mama Lona's Man

By Brett Davis

“Mama Lona’s Man” is a fast-moving, funny, sometimes bittersweet tale about a young woman who meets the love of her life, only there’s one hitch: He’s lost his life and become a zombie. As Rolling Stone once said about Jim Morrison, the title character of this novel is hot, sexy, and dead.

Abigail Callisto is a brilliant, troubled college student living in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. When her father’s shadowy government employer sends him to the Caribbean to tamp down a pending coup attempt on the small island nation of Petit Royale, she goes along so he can also keep an eye on her and keep her out of trouble. She thinks it’s a lark; she has no idea her life is about to change forever.

Petit Royale is governed by the jovial but corrupt Marcos Verriera, whose brother, Abraham, has long sought to replace him as president. Abigail’s father has operatives on the island; they tell him that Marcos has gone around the bend and is kidnapping children, possibly for sex trafficking. What the operatives don’t tell him is that they are actually working for Abraham and they are the ones actually doing the kidnapping. The children aren’t harmed, but are held so Abraham can pretend to release them and be a hero.

To try to sway Abigail's father to their side, the operatives decide to kidnap Abigail. They drug her in the night and carry her to the gates of the presidential mansion, where they set her down. They know that Abraham’s militia is moving in that night and they want Abigail to be among those rescued. It doesn’t quite work out that way.

Petit Royale has its own special version of the bogeyman: A spectral figure known only as Mama Lona’s man. He’s a ghost who has been known to deal murderous vengeance on those who abuse children. The plan is for Abraham’s men to dispense with Marcos Verriera and blame his disappearance on Mama Lona’s Man.

Abigail is discovered by the presidential guards and brought into the mansion, where President Marcos Verriera himself questions her. He knows what his brother is up to, and he knows that having a kidnapped American girl in his house is not a good thing for him. Suddenly shooting erupts and he runs away, leaving Abigail to fend for herself. She crawls into the interior of the mansion, trying to get away, only to find herself in the middle of a gun battle between Marcos’ men and Abraham’s men.

She’s trying to figure a way out of it when something amazing happens. A man walks right through the fight, as if it’s not happening, and begins looking for Marcos Verriera. Abigail watches as he gets shot several times and not only survives but barely seems to notice. He’s a good-looking young white man, not much older than her own 20 years.

He sees Abigail, and, recognizing a damsel in distress, takes her along as he searches the mansion. Abigail is amazed to see him shot a couple more times as he makes his way in pursuit of Marcos Verriera, who has fled down a secret hallway that leads to the ocean. The man manages to catch his boat just before it leaves, and he quickly blows something in the president’s face that knocks him out cold. He does the same to Abigail, only she doesn’t inhale and only pretends to be unconscious so she can study him. He leaves her on a public beach and takes the president away.

She makes her way back to her hotel where her father is angry that she has been out, suspecting her of partying. When she tells him her story, they realize she has seen the mysterious Mama Lona’s man, something akin to spotting Bigfoot. He wants to find the shadowy Mama Lona and discover if her man really did kill the president. Abigail just wants to see him again.

To see what happens, read on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Davis
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301347049

Brett Davis

Brett Davis is the author of Mama Lona's Man, as well as The Faery Convention, Hair of the Dog, Bone Wars and Two Tiny Claws.

Book preview

Chapter One

With a sigh of contentment he settled his thin body back into the wicker chair and closed his eyes. It had been a tiring day for him and he knew no better way to relax than this. Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King boomed from the stereo as he conducted the unseen musicians, waving his bony right hand back and forth, urging them on to perfection. The music set his heart racing and after that he knew sleep would come easily. The night was cool and just a hint of a breeze moved through the room, driving away the last acrid vestiges of the heat that had gripped the island during the day.

A dog howled down the street, adding its inhuman wail to the music pounding in his ears. The sound seemed to fit and he incorporated the dog into his conducting, urging it with his swooping hand. Then he heard something closer, something not musical at all: Something moving. Startled, he opened his eyes, freezing his hand, breaking the spell. The unseen musicians of the Amsterdam Symphony Orchestra played along without him, not missing a beat. He listened hard for a minute, tuning out the crashing of the cymbal, but heard nothing aside from the lonesome dog. He had just closed his eyes when he heard it again. Slowly, under cover of Grieg’s beautiful noise, he stood up from his chair and padded softly to a wicker table. Its small single drawer held a very big gun. He withdrew it, hefting it in his conducting hand, a hand that now moved slowly, warily, like a snake waiting to strike. Another sound, this one unmistakable—someone was moving through the house. He walked backward until he was leaning against a wall, facing the room. Only one lamp illuminated it and now he was well away from its shine. He had only to wait. Soon enough, the shadow of a man stepped through the doorway leading to the front of the house. He was not a big man but he was terrifying, not least because he was as pale as a ghost.

You should have known not to stay here, Eric, the ghost said. His voice was quieter than the music but cut through it like a razor. How did this man know his name? The families of the boys you molest want justice.

The thin man’s breath rattled in his throat. I h-haven’t done anything, he stammered. He tried to make his voice sound steady but he couldn’t. This intruder knew him. His jaw trembled uncontrollably. I didn’t touch those boys.

That’s not what I hear.

It’s true.

That’s not what I hear. What did you do today, Eric? This very afternoon? What did you do to that little boy who trusted you?

I j-just gave him a music lesson.

He pointed in the direction of the rickety, out-of-tune piano, but the pale man did not turn his head.

You gave him more than that. You gave him scars he’ll have for life. And now it’s your turn to get a lesson.

The pale man was moving again, heading straight for him. He raised the pistol, steadying his shaking right hand with his left.

Stop, or I’ll shoot. I have a gun.

I don’t care.

The pale man didn’t stop. He had no choice. He fired once, twice, the gun’s booms fitting in with orchestra’s windup. The man jerked back, once, twice. He expected to hear the pale-as-a-ghost man falling to the ground, adding the bass thump of a body to the mix, becoming a ghost for real. But the pale man didn’t stop. A horrible realization flooded his mind.

I know who you are! he shouted.

He ran for the room’s only window, which led to a grassy walkway. He nearly made it but then the ghost was upon him, knocking the gun from his hand, pulling him back.

I know who sent you! he shouted, falling to his knees. Tell her I’m sorry! Tell her I won’t do it anymore!

Surely someone would come and rescue him, he thought, with all the noise he was making, the shouting and the gunshots. But then the huge hands of the ghost wrapped around his arms and he knew no one could save him.

Oh God! he shouted. God, help me! Help me please!

It’s too late for that, the ghost said. I’m here now.

He couldn’t move. The music swelled to an ending. The symphony was over.

Chapter Two

The hand on her arm tightened its grasp, slowly, like a boa constrictor, but Abigail Callisto shrugged it away.

Stop that! You're going to leave a bruise. I told you no.

Come on, Abs. Don't be like that. Let's have a good time tonight.

His voice was loud so she could hear it over the music. Abigail looked up into the face of Jake Sullivan, her sometimes boyfriend. Usually she liked what she saw, the lopsided smile, the large hazel eyes, so big that he resembled a Japanese cartoon character. Tonight those eyes were dimmed, fogged by alcohol and desire.

"I am having a good time, she shouted back. That's why I want to stay here with our friends, not go upstairs."

She wasn't really having a good time. The party was too noisy, too unfocused, everybody talking over each other. The music was bad, and old, some forgotten playlist pulled from somebody's iPod, and it was set at a skull-rattling level. The furniture had been pushed into the middle of the room to allow for dancing, but the few who tried it were just twitching like zombies. The party was trying too hard to be fun. She had schoolwork she needed to be doing and as sad as it sounded, even to her, she’d rather be doing that than attending this party.

We'll just go up and talk, then, Jake said.

We can talk here, Abigail replied, but the fact that she had to half-shout just made him laugh.

Come on. I won't molest you.

His hand gripped her arm again, even tighter this time. He really was going to leave a bruise. She shook it off, nearly causing him to stumble against the wall, and stalked off. She moved around the dancers and pushed through the front door. The chilly night air caused her to shiver.

Hey! Jake was right behind her. Where are you going?

Home.

But I thought you were having fun!

I was until you kept trying to drag me upstairs.

She fished in her purse for her keys until she remembered she didn't have them. Jake did. Jake, her designated driver, who had somehow managed to get fairly drunk.

Give me my keys, Jake. You can stay here, I don't mind.

No, I'll drive you home. I don't want to stay here if you're not here.

But you're drunk.

"I had a couple of drinks. I'm not that drunk. Come on."

He headed for her car, his jingling keys in hand. She gave a little snort and then followed him.

Seriously, I want to drive, she said, but Jake got in the car and cranked the engine. He didn't even open her door. Some gentleman.

His driving was fine at first, at least until they got out of town, but when he cleared the Potomac and got on I-66 he started pressing harder on the accelerator.

Come on, Jake, slow down, you'll get pulled over. It's Saturday night, the cops are out.

I'll get run over if I go too slow on this road. I'm just trying to get us out of the danger.

He laughed at his own cleverness. She held on to the door and bit her lip. He sped up even more as they got close to her McLean exit. The tires shrieked in protest as he headed up the ramp and she gave a little shriek along with them.

Jake, seriously.

I'm fine.

He was fine right up until he tried to make it through a light that turned red. Another car, one in an equal hurry, pulled out in front of him about two nanoseconds after his light changed green. Jake hit the brakes and whipped the steering wheel to the left and Abigail's beloved Volkswagen Jetta parted ways with the road and began tearing through some very expensive lawns. Abigail heard a screaming sound and it took her a second to realize it was coming from both her and Jake. A mailbox went sailing overhead before a large tree, which had been rooted to its spot for hundreds of years and was not inclined to move, put an end to the ride. There was a sound like popcorn when the airbags deployed.

Are you OK? Abigail gasped once she got her breath back and pushed the airbag out of the way.

I think so, Jake said. Yeah, I'm fine.

I told you to slow down.

Yes, you did.

He had a sudden wild look in his eyes; fear.

Gah, Dad's gonna kill me! He’s gonna kill me! I’ll be in the papers! This will be on TV!

He looked terrified. If he weren’t so young she would have thought he was about to have a heart attack.

Don’t worry, she said, an idea coming to her head. Switch seats with me.

What?

You’ll figure it out. Hurry, she said, and opened her door. Jake slid over the gear shift and plopped into the driver's seat. She ran around the back of the car and slid into the driver's seat, closing the door back carefully so it wouldn't slam.

Thanks, he said, her plan finally dawning on him. I owe you one.

She wondered how long she would regret the action, but then it was too late to change it; blue and red lights from a police cruiser began dancing around the Jetta's interior, making it look like the world's tiniest disco.

Just shut up.

Chapter Three

Petit Royale? Are you kidding me? Is everything in North Dakota booked up?

Paul, calm down.

Calm down? Listen to what you're saying to me, Stan.

What am I saying that's so bad? Go to the Caribbean? Spend some time with your daughter? What's so bad about that?

Paul Costello sighed and looked out the window on an expanse of skeletal treetops. Winter was a little bit late in handing the baton to spring and the trees were still spare and sparse, and he could just make out the greenish-brown waters of the Potomac river in the distance. Beyond that lay Washington and all its marble madness.

You know what’s bad about that. You know I don’t like to go there. It just feels like punishment.

Stan Donaldson walked to his personal espresso machine and conjured up a fresh cup.

I know. I do. But look, I won't kid you. It would not be a bad thing for your daughter to be away from here for a while. The continuing resolution is coming to an end and we're going to get our budget, and all of our budget, but only if Senator Sullivan is happy. Having your daughter around is—well, it’s making him nervous.

Paul Costello snorted louder than Donaldson's espresso machine.

He shouldn't be nervous. She's covering for his slimy little son, I know it. Getting a second DUI to keep him from getting one at all. It makes me sick.

But she won't admit to that?

She won't, Costello said. I've asked her, repeatedly. She says she got drunk and tried to drive them home. But I don't believe her.

I'm sorry, Paul.

I'm sorry, too, mainly because she's covering for that little slimeball Jake Sullivan. And I'm sorry that this makes Senator Sullivan worried. I guess that he's worried my daughter will tell the truth and his son will be exposed.

Stan Donaldson joined him at the window. He sipped his espresso and looked out across the gray treetops, watched a fat hawk drop from a branch onto some unsuspecting mouse.

Don't take this the wrong way, Paul, but your daughter is no saint. He looked nervously at Paul Costello, who merely grunted in reply. She did have that one DUI.

Correct.

And she still calls herself Callisto, not Costello, right?

It's an art student thing, Costello grunted. Although she's thinking about having it legally changed. She likes the sound of it. I think it's just some phase she's going through.

I thought she was studying computer science.

She's double-majoring.

I see. I'm just saying that you can see why the good senator would be nervous. It's an election year for him and I hear his constituents are considering putting him in a new line of work. The bad thing for us is that before he goes, he basically controls our budget.

I know that.

I know you do. So I'm saying take this assignment. Put your memories to rest and go down there. Take your daughter out of town so the good senator can relax. And maybe she can relax. You can get to know her a little better. Tell her your history there, if you want to. And, in the meantime, we can forestall a coup in the Caribbean, which we need like a hole in the head right now.

So it's the Verriera brothers at it again?

I'm afraid so. Abraham wants to be the top boss, still.

Marcos and Abraham. Their mother must have just tossed a bunch of random names in a hat and picked two of them out. So what's my mission here, to tell Marcos that we still have his back, and to tell Abraham to cool it?

Stan blew on his espresso but winced when it still burned his tongue.

That's pretty much it. A cakewalk.

Is there any chance that maybe Abraham is really serious this time?

Nah, sounds like the same old stuff. If I thought it was dangerous I wouldn't ask you to take Abbie along.

Since I will be authorized to use some green to calm the brothers Verriera down, how much am I authorized to spend?

I don't know, we'll pick a number. Probably not as much as they would like. You still have your contacts down there?

Yeah, I think they're still around. I haven't talked to them in a while but if they get wind that some money is headed for either brother, they'll turn up. So I suppose I should get started on this right away?

Pretty soon. You'll come back with a sunburn and a better attitude, and a daughter who's grateful you took her along.

No doubt. If all of that happens, I'll consider it a very successful mission.

I didn't think it was going to be this lively, Abigail said, looking out the window of the cab taking them from the airport to the Palm Tree Suites resort.

It usually isn't, her father said, adding after a beat, I don't think.

Her eyes were wide as she watched the crowd spill into the streets. His were slitted, under knotted brows; something was going on. The cabbie had unwisely opted for a route that took them to the outskirts of St. David, which was not a metropolis but was large enough to have traffic jams such as the one they were stuck in. This jam was not so much caused by cars, though, as it was by the people who were walking and yelling in the middle of the street.

What's going on? Paul asked the cab driver, who just shrugged.

In a moment of quick decision, Paul opened the door and stepped into the street.

Dad! Abigail said.

I'll be right back, Paul said.

He could tell the tenor of the crowd was angry, not happy. He wanted to know why. Had Abraham already started his coup? That didn't seem likely. The crowd at this point was mostly men, but Paul could see a group of women in the middle, crying and wailing. It was an unearthly sound. He had seen many Caribbean rallies in his day, had even attended a voodoo ceremony or two, but had never heard a sound as eerie and agonizing as the wails that seemed to invade his pores, bypassing his ears.

What's going on? he asked a man who passed by.

Her baby girl kidnapped, the man said. We going to the government house.

Kidnapped?

Taken away, the man said before he disappeared back into the crowd.

By the time Paul noticed that the central knot of wailing women was upon them, he also noticed something else—Abigail had also gotten out of the car. She was in the group of women, who could barely see through their tears. She walked with them, holding the hand of the grieving woman who clutched it as if she was drowning. Paul walked to the front of the cab and reached out for Abigail as she went by.

Abigail, he said, gently tugging on her arm to break her away from the group. Let them go. There's nothing we can do.

It's so sad, she said, but she broke away.

I know. It is. Let's get back in the car.

I wish we could do something.

I do, too. But right now we can’t.

She got back in the cab with a sigh, but never took her face away from the window.

I’m not sure I believe you, she said, so quietly that he could pretend he didn’t hear her.

Chapter Four

Abigail Callisto felt like a spy. The warm, clear water of the Caribbean tickled her toes but her eyes, and her mind, was elsewhere. She was still thinking of the street scene they had witnessed upon arriving in Petit Royale. She could almost still feel the woman's fingers digging into her palm, and rubbed it absently while she looked out at the placid ocean.

Once the crowd had moved on it hadn't taken them long to arrive at the Palm Tree Suites, a beach resort whose name, coral-colored walls and wicker furniture betrayed its complete lack of imagination. Still, it was a nice place. It would be hard to screw up the location, which was on the western edge of the island, beautiful sunsets guaranteed. She and her father ate a nice lunch on the verandah—baked fish, rice and conch fritters, with lichi for dessert. They were quiet at lunch. She had the sense they were both still processing the morning but didn't want to talk about it.

Then Paul Costello said he had his first business meeting of the trip. Take a walk on the beach, do some snorkeling, he said, smiling, jovial. There are some nice, small reefs just off the beach to the left. She was instantly suspicious.

Abigail Callisto wasn't sure what exactly her father did for a living, but she knew it didn't have much to do with actual business. He had been to Petit Royale before, she knew that now—he hadn't mentioned that before but had let it slip. He didn't work for the CIA—he had denied that outright—but he stuck to the line that he was in imports and exports although she never saw him export anything and the only things he imported from his various trips were cheap souvenirs. He worked for the government, that much she was 99 percent sure about, and it was likely that it was one of the agencies with three letters in its name.

After lunch she put on her bathing suit—one he would say was too small—and threw a poncho over it so he wouldn't get a chance to disapprove. She felt her body was pretty good and she didn't mind showing it off now and then, plus she could use a little more sun to chase away the pale facade left by the weak Washington winter sun. She kissed her father goodbye on the cheek, gave him a quick hug and watched him walk away in the opposite direction he had recommended to her.

Once on the beach she selected one of the resort's chairs and made herself comfortable. A smiling young man in a peach Palm Tree Suites shirt brought an umbrella and set it up for her. He was probably a poor islander who lived in a shack with a tin roof but spent his days catering to pasty resort dwellers. She started to ask but decided against it and just said thank you instead. Then she reached in her bag, removed a receiver the size of a deck of cards and put on earphones.

She had helped design a remote listening device in her advanced computing class, the class she had been rather abruptly pulled from to go on this trip, which her father had described as a business emergency. Early testing had shown the device had good sound and a decent range and it was a marvel of miniaturization to boot. It looked like a slightly oversized quarter and was good for about 15 minutes of listening time. She had dropped it in her father's pocket when they hugged. She wanted to see if it worked and to learn what her father was really up to.

Paul Costello gazed vacantly out over the jewel-like complexity of St. David and sipped his drink while he waited. Sipping this drink was tantamount to guzzling it. Not only did this bartender not put enough liquor in the drinks, he didn't put enough liquid in them. He would have liked to relax and nurse his drink—it was a typical fruity Caribbean thing, and it was pretty good—but it was hard to nurse something this small so he just downed it in one go and signaled for another.

He was seated in the farthest outdoor bar of the Palm Tree Suites, which was situated on a hill overlooking Petit Royale's capital city, the only city it really had. St. David was attractive from this angle, far from the teeming crowds. Behind it loomed Mount St. Andrew—everything was sainted around here. From this height the city's streets and sidewalks glistened like